


Like a Comet Pulled from Orbit (As it Passes a Sun)

by exalteddm



Category: Frozen (Disney Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Asexual Elsa (Disney), Background Anna/Kristoff - Freeform, Elsa is a total drama queen (but like the lovable kind), F/F, Flowers, Fluff, Honeymaren and Elsa are chaotic disasters, Idiots in Love, Kristanna Wedding, Mutual Pining, Romance, Ryder needs a break, SO MUCH FLUFF, Slow Burn, Useless Lesbians, letter-writing, or maybe more like medium burn?
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-08
Updated: 2021-03-07
Packaged: 2021-03-13 10:33:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 10,988
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29277006
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/exalteddm/pseuds/exalteddm
Summary: There’s something indescribably relaxing about being the only one awake in the early morning, Maren thinks. Maybe it’s the way the floorboards of the apartment creak quietly under her feet, unimpeded by the sounds of chatter from the rest of the building. Maybe it’s the fact that she gets to watch the morning mist burn away while she sips her coffee and gazes at the rising sun outside the window. Or maybe it’s—“Morning, Mare,” Ryder’s tired voice says behind her, jolting her out of her reverie. “How’s your monthly stalking session going?”-In which Maren is completely, irrevocably enamoured with the mysterious woman who stops by her apartment once a month to steal one of her flowers, and Ryder will die happy if he can finally convince the two of them to justtalkto each other.AU, updates weekly on Sundays.
Relationships: Elsa/Honeymaren (Disney), Honeymaren & Ryder Nattura
Comments: 38
Kudos: 81





	1. April

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title from Stephen Schwarz's "For Good", from _Wicked_.

APRIL

* * *

There’s something indescribably relaxing about being the only one awake in the early morning, Maren thinks. Maybe it’s the way the floorboards of the apartment creak quietly under her feet, unimpeded by the sounds of chatter from the rest of the building. Maybe it’s the fact that she gets to watch the morning mist burn away while she sips her coffee and gazes at the rising sun outside the window. Or maybe it’s—

“Morning, Mare,” Ryder’s tired voice says behind her, jolting her out of her reverie. “How’s your monthly stalking session going?”

“Oh, fuck off,” Maren grumbles. She reaches for the closest thing she can find by the windowsill, which happens to be one of the brick-like paperbacks Ryder has been reading, and chucks it in the vague direction of her brother. He doesn’t cry out, so she assumes that she’s missed. 

“I’m not doing any stalking,” she insists. “I’m not even leaving the apartment, for God’s sake.”

“You’re awake before ten A.M. on a weekend,” Ryder says, stifling a yawn. “Might as well confess your love at this point.” He pauses, then corrects himself. “Well, maybe not love. Creepy infatuation might be more along the right lines.”

“It’s not creepy, and I’m not infatuated with her.” Maren risks a turn away from the windowsill, hoping her quarry won’t decide to walk by just as she’s engaging with Ryder. “Don’t you have to go to work today?”

Ryder is already wearing his barista’s apron, which bodes well for him leaving her alone within the next couple of minutes. Knowing him, he’s probably already late to his shift. “Yeah, yeah, I’m going,” he sighs, swiping a set of keys off of the shelf by the door. “You behave while I’m gone!” he calls over his shoulder as he exits, and then the door slams shut behind him.

Maren flips off the empty doorway for good measure before turning back to the window. The Flower Bandit isn’t due to arrive for another fifteen minutes, if she holds to her previous schedule, but Maren isn’t taking any chances—not that she’s looking forward to seeing her, or anything. Because that would be weird, and vaguely stalker-y, and _definitely_ not what Maren is doing right now.

Fourteen and a half minutes later, like clockwork, the Flower Bandit comes around the corner, and Maren puts her coffee down on the windowsill so she can remember how to breathe.

The Bandit has been wearing the same powder-blue dress every time she’s walked by Maren’s apartment (six times in total, once a month since last July— _not_ that Maren’s counting), and her long, platinum-blonde hair is always done up in the exact same braid, but somehow, Maren is still floored every time. 

She watches with bated breath as the Flower Bandit glances around cautiously, then retrieves a pair of tiny garden clippers from her purse and carefully takes a single bloom from the bed of crocus flowers growing in front of Maren’s apartment. Satisfied that no one has seen her, she puts the clippers away and continues down the street, cradling the flower gently in her hands.

Maren watches her go, and takes a sip of her coffee to prevent herself from sighing like a loon. She wonders where the woman is going—what important appointment she has on the third Saturday of every month, and why she steals the flowers for it from outside Maren’s apartment specifically. She wonders what it would be like to be the person the Flower Bandit is stealing them for, what it would be like to watch as she tucks the stem behind her ear and—

Oh, God, Maren thinks to herself, tearing herself away from the window and burying her face in her hands. She’s pathetic.

But she’s still outside an hour later, a trowel in one hand and a young crocus shoot in the other, determined to restock the flowerbed so no one else notices that it’s lacking. It’s a community service project, she tells herself firmly. She’s making sure the actions of some stranger don’t diminish the beauty of the apartment complex for everyone who lives here.

Never mind that it’s _her_ flower bed.

Maren sighs. If she can’t even convince herself of this, how is she going to handle Ryder’s teasing once her brother gets home?

(As it turns out, the answer to that is easy: she doesn’t. But then, she never really expected herself to, anyway.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun fact: when I first started writing this, I picked the crocus because I thought it was a cool flower with a symbolism that mostly matched what I was going for with Elsa. I discovered later (in the middle of a wiki dive) that the crocus also Arendelle's national flower, which if anything makes it even more fitting than I thought.


	2. May

MAY

* * *

It’s about a month later one Friday night when Ryder casually mentions that Oaken’s coffeeshop has given him the day off tomorrow. Maren, however, doesn’t quite process the significance of this—at least until her brother crosses his arms and smirks at her, clearly waiting for some sort of reaction to his statement.

“Um, good for you?” she says, scribbling another figure in the left-hand column of the balancing sheet she’s working on. If she puts in another order for roses on Monday, she notes, it will put her cash supply dangerously close to the red zone. But it’s been a pretty popular May for roses, surprisingly—

“Wait,” she says, realizing that Ryder hasn’t moved at all. “You’re getting _tomorrow_ off?”

“Yep,” Ryder says, dragging out the chair across from her so he can sit. “Why, is there a problem with tomorrow?”

He knows exactly what he’s doing, damn him. Maren puts her pencil down atop her papers and purses her lips. “No, of course not,” she says slowly. “No problems at all.”

“Good,” Ryder says easily. Maren frowns, but she doesn’t have to wait long to find out what his game is. “So I figured we could make a day of it, you know? Get out to brunch, or something like that. It’s been a while since we’ve really talked.”

The perfect control he has over his poker face irritates Maren to no end, especially since she knows it’s reserved for her and her alone. If he’s around anyone else, Ryder has literally zero control over his expressions, but for some reason he finds it in himself as a special skill for tormenting her. 

She debates crumpling her expense report into a ball and throwing it at him, but she needs to keep this for posterity. And also in case of tax audits, because those are a thing, too.

“Um,” Maren says carefully, “I’m—busy tomorrow morning, actually. Meeting a . . . friend.”

“Oh, so she’s a friend now?” Ryder says. Maren wants to punch the twinkle right out of those obnoxious eyes of his. “Does that mean you _did_ talk to her last month, hmm?”

“I don’t know who this ‘she’ is that you’re talking about,” Maren grumbles, hoping her face isn’t as red as she feels like it is. “And no, you won’t be able to jog my memory, so you can go ahead and shut up now.”

Ryder snorts. “Rude,” he mutters under his breath, and then suddenly her expense report is being tugged away from underneath her elbow, along with the sheet she’s working on.

“Hey,” she complains. “I need to finish those.”

“In a moment,” Ryder says, clutching the papers to his chest. “Look, Mare—”

“So help me, Ryder, if you don’t give me those papers back, we’re not going to have enough money to make rent next month—”

“I said in a moment,” Ryder says, and a flash of real irritation passes over his face. He masks it quickly, but it’s enough for Maren to put down her pencil and sigh.

“Fine,” she says. “What is it?”

“Okay, look.” Apparently, Ryder judges that she’s serious about hearing him out, because he sets the papers back down on the table carefully. “I know I’ve been giving you a lot of shit about this, but seriously—you have to do something. Please. It’s _literally_ killing me to watch this, and I’m not the one sitting in a windowsill pining like some eighteenth-century romance protagonist.”

“Oh, and you’d know all about eighteenth-century romances, wouldn’t you?” Maren says, raising an eyebrow. It’s the coward’s way out, but Ryder takes the bait.

“That’s because I, unlike you, happen to have excellent taste in literature.”

Maren snorts. “You told me once, word for word, that the only reason you read Oscar Wilde is that you’re pretty sure he was gay.”

“I said I was pretty sure he was bi, actually—” Ryder stops himself and glares. “Okay, that is not the point right now. The _point_ is that you’re pining after a woman who you’ve never spoken to, who you see once a month for a grand total of about two minutes, and who you’re pretty sure is consistently going on dates with someone else.”

She scowls. “Well, when you put it that way, it doesn’t sound very flattering.”

“Which is exactly why I did,” Ryder nods. “Maren, you need to talk to her—that, or get yourself out of this apartment tomorrow morning and stop torturing yourself. I’ve seen the flowers you’re growing in your room—and I know that one of them disappears every month when she comes around, so don’t even think about bullshitting me and telling me they’re something for the shop. You have to do _something_ , please, because _this_ —” he gestures vaguely “—is not healthy. Not in the slightest.”

It’s a speech he’s been planning for some time, Maren can tell. But that doesn’t make him any less right, as much as Maren hates to admit it. What she’s been doing is incredibly weird, to put it lightly, and probably not healthy.

(Though maybe not as _un_ healthy as Ryder keeps claiming it is.)

The polite thing to do would be to just forget about the Flower Bandit entirely. She should take Ryder up on his offer of brunch, and then sleep in until he shakes her awake so she can drive the two of them to the panini place on Fifth that they both love. And she should do it again next month, and the month after that, so that she never has to see the Flower Bandit again and the Flower Bandit doesn’t have to know that she’s been watching her from the window for nearly half a year now.

But Maren’s never been a fan of making things easy for herself, and there’s still the one stupid part of her that wonders if the two of them could ever be friends.

Her subconscious whispers something else in the back of her mind, but she refuses to acknowledge it.

“All right,” she mutters. “Fine. I’ll talk to her tomorrow, and probably completely freak out about it, and then we can get brunch afterwards. Happy?”

She reaches for her papers, but Ryder narrows his eyes and slides them away. “You swear you’re going to talk to her?”

“On my honor as a Nattura,” Maren grumbles. “Now, will you please give me my papers back so I know how many orders of roses I can afford for the rest of the month?”

“Gladly,” Ryder says, passing her the papers with a grin. “I’d hate to keep you from knowing exactly how many roses you’ll have to woo your lady love with.”

Maren levels a glare at him. “You’re a dick, you know that?”

“But you love me anyway.” Ryder stands up from the table before she can even consider throwing anything at him, and pauses to tap his finger on the table. “And now you’ve sworn,” he says, “so you can’t go back on your word. My work here is done.”

He vanishes into his room, leaving Maren to calculate her figures while she contemplates exactly how much of a sad, sad mess her life has become.

* * *

“Nope,” Maren says, planting her feet on the ground and bracing herself against the wall. She’s had her hand on the doorknob for nearly five minutes now, but she can’t quite bring herself to turn it. “Nope, I’m not doing it. I can’t do it.”

“You’re going to be the death of me someday,” Ryder sighs. He attempts to pull the door open himself, but Maren is stronger than he is, and more than capable of holding her ground. “Come on, Mare, you promised me you would do this. And she’s going to be here in less than ten minutes.”

“If she even comes,” Maren points out. “What if she never shows up, and I’m just standing outside like an idiot until you let me back in?”

She shouldn’t have agreed to let him take her keys for the day, she realizes belatedly. That was her second mistake—the first mistake, obviously, being her agreement to go through with this at all.

“Then at least you’re not sitting _inside_ like an idiot,” Ryder says, which does nothing to further endear her to his plan. “Mare, if you don’t get out there in the next thirty seconds, I’ll talk to her and do your job for you.”

Maren stiffens. “You wouldn’t dare,” she hisses. She’s blocking the door, sure, but Ryder is perfectly capable of exiting the building through his bedroom window—he’s done it more than once, mostly when he doesn’t want her to know that he’s sneaking out to meet boys in the middle of the night.

Unfortunately for her, however, Ryder doesn’t appear to be bluffing, He makes one last attempt to displace her from the door before he gives up and starts walking toward his room.

As embarrassing as talking to the Flower Bandit is going to be, Maren decides, being forced to watch Ryder talk to her would be decidedly worse.

“Fine,” she yells to him, twisting the doorknob open and stepping outside. “I’m going, I’m going.” Ryder turns around with a self-satisfied smirk on his face.

“Good,” he says simply, and shuts the door behind her.

The next ten minutes are the longest ten minutes Maren has ever experienced in her life. She descends the stairs to the entrance of the apartment building as slowly as she can, but it still takes her less than forty-five seconds total—there just aren’t that many of them, it seems. 

She steps outside into the bright morning sun, suddenly realizing that she has no plan for what to do here. She should have brought a watering can, or a book, or any number of other items that would make loitering around the steps for several minutes actually make sense, but eventually she just sits down next to the door to wait.

Then she stands up again, because she’s far too jittery to be able to sit properly. She’s going to murder Ryder as soon as he lets her back inside, his useful barista income be damned.

When the Flower Bandit comes around the corner eight and a half minutes later, Maren is still not prepared. She tries not to stare—really, she does!—but the Bandit notices Maren watching her and shrinks backward a little, slowing down as she approaches Maren’s apartment. She fidgets with the clasp on her purse, not quite looking at Maren but not quite looking away, either.

The Flower Bandit moves past the planter containing the crocuses, her eyes flicking towards them for a brief moment, and suddenly Maren realizes the flaw in Ryder’s plan.

Before Maren can look away or disappear back into the stairwell, the Flower Bandit has passed, and her pace picks up again once she’s on the other side of the apartment building. Part of Maren wonders whether she should call out, but her throat is dry and she can’t quite get her jaw to open, so instead she flees back up to her apartment and knocks angrily on the door. 

Ryder opens it with a sigh, an irritated expression on his face. “Does this mean I have to take next month off now, too?”


	3. June (And Also July)

JUNE (AND ALSO JULY)

* * *

The Flower Bandit doesn’t return in June, however.

Maren spends the week and a half after her usual visiting date in a state of jittery anxiety, wondering if she somehow scared her off. She’s pretty sure Ryder notices, but thankfully, he doesn’t say anything (other than, “I’m sure she’ll be back in July,” accompanied by a careless shrug), and life proceeds as normally as Maren expects. She goes to work during the week, balances figures at night, and sleeps her way through the weekends while attempting to drown her sorrows in coffee.

She doesn’t end up selling all of the roses she’s been buying, but the shop still attracts enough traffic to turn a profit. By the time the third Saturday of July rolls around, Maren has almost managed to forget the disasters that were May and June.

(Though by ‘almost forgotten’, she really means ‘obsessively deconstructing her actions once every three days instead of multiple times an hour’.)

“It’ll be fine, Mare,” Ryder insists over a cup of coffee, on the July morning that the Flower Bandit is due once again. There are dark circles under his eyes that Maren opts not to mention—he’s been taking on more and more hours at Oaken’s lately, even though they’re not exactly struggling for money. She makes a mental note to ask him about it later. “I doubt you scared her off. She was probably just busy last month or something.”

“Maybe,” Maren says with a shrug. But there are plenty of reasons that the Flower Bandit might not have showed up that are completely outside Maren’s control. She might have found a quicker route to walk, or some nicer flowers to steal. Or maybe she’d broken up with whoever she was bringing those flowers to. Or maybe she’d been injured, or worse, killed, and none of them would ever know because—

 _Okay, Maren, that’s enough of that_.

“You remember the plan, right?” Ryder asks. It’s the seventh time in the past twelve hours he’s asked her to repeat it to him, but it’s enough of a distraction that she doesn’t particularly mind. 

“Of course I remember the plan,” Maren grumbles. “Stand by the front door, wait for your text, and then walk outside and creep her out so badly that she’ll never come within half a mile of this building again. What could possibly go wrong?”

Ryder just sighs, downing half of his coffee in one gulp. “Close enough, I guess,” he mutters.

Which is how she finds herself crammed into the corner of the stairwell, taking care to avoid being seen through the windows, and staring at her phone with bated breath as she waits. 

**Ryder:** She’s coming around the corner, don’t come out yet  
**Maren:** why the fuck would you say that you imbecile  
**Maren:** now i’m just stressed out even more  
**Maren:** god  
**Ryder:** Geez, Mare, chill  
**Ryder:** Guess I won’t keep updating you, then  
**Maren:** no you’ve committed now  
**Maren:** you have to keep texting me or i’m gonna die here  
**Maren:** ryder  
**Maren:** RYDER  
**Maren:** RYDER NATTURA  
**Ryder:** Okay! She’s stopped to clip the flowers  
**Ryder:** Go do your thing

Maren highly doubts her _thing_ is going to do anything more than scare the Flower Bandit away from the apartment forever, but she shoves her phone into her pocket and strides toward the door anyway. She takes a deep breath before shoving it open, and steps out onto the sidewalk—right in front of where the Flower Bandit has started walking again.

Maren isn’t sure who yelps louder—all she knows is that she’s grateful she isn’t the only one who’s surprised.

“Sorry!” she yells, stumbling backward. The Flower Bandit turns to face Maren, shoving her hands behind her back. “Um—hi?” Maren says.

God, she hopes she isn’t blushing.

“Hi there,” the Flower Bandit says, a touch breathlessly, and Maren is pretty sure she’s just died and gone to heaven. There’s no _way_ anyone on Earth is allowed to have a voice that smooth and melodic. “Um, sorry about—you know. Being in your way.”

The Flower Bandit takes a step back to make space on the sidewalk, gesturing vaguely with her hands, before realizing that she’s still holding the crocus. Maren’s eyes catch on the flower, and she makes a desperate bid for a topic of conversation.

“Is that—” she squeaks. Groaning inwardly, she swallows, takes a breath, and tries again. “Is that, ah, one of my flowers that you have there?”

“What, this?” The Flower Bandit stares down at the crocus, eyes widening in alarm. “Oh my God, these are _yours_? I’m so sorry, I didn’t realize—I thought they were just public property or something—”

“No, no, it’s all right!” Maren cuts her off. Based on the panic in her eyes, the Flower Bandit clearly doesn’t agree, so Maren casts about desperately for something else to say. “I, uh—I just hope whoever you’ve been taking these for is pretty enough to justify flower thievery,” she says with a grin, and to her surprise, her voice doesn’t even shake.

“I— _what?_ ” the Flower Bandit demands shrilly. “No wait, I haven’t been—well, I suppose if you consider—”

“All right, all right, let’s just—okay, let’s chill out for a moment,” Maren says. Clearly, teasing a stranger she’s just accosted about her potentially illegal activity was probably the wrong thing to say. “I’m just joking—it’s fine, really. It’s, um, actually kind of flattering that you’ve been doing this all these months, considering that I’m a florist for a living and you liking the flowers means I have to have _some_ sort of eye for this, so—” she’s rambling, she thinks, and she needs to cut herself off before she says something stupid— “You know,” Maren finishes lamely.

The Flower Bandit chews at her lip for a moment before asking, “So . . . you know I’ve been doing this for a while, then?’

_Shit._

“No!” Maren shouts immediately. “Well, I mean, yes. But not because I’ve been watching you or anything. That would be weird, and totally inappropriate, and that means it’s definitely not something I’ve been doing.” She clamps her mouth shut before she can say anything even more damaging, and braces herself for the Flower Bandit to bolt. But the woman just stands there, frozen to the spot, before letting out a long sigh.

“I should have known such beautiful flowers would be too good to be true,” she says, smiling ruefully. Despite herself, Maren feels a blush begin to creep up her cheeks. “And I don’t blame you for keeping an eye on me,” the Flower Bandit adds. “It seems I’ve been stealing off your property, after all. I’m sorry.”

She holds out the crocus gently, motioning for Maren to take it. “I don’t know if you can—replant this or something, but even if you can’t, please take it back. I—my sincerest apologies; I promise this won’t happen again.”

Maren looses herself from her trance long enough to shake her head, gently pushing away the Flower Bandit’s outstretched hand. She tries not to blush too much at the contact, but she’s not entirely sure that she’s successful. “No, like I said,” she repeats, “it’s totally fine. I’m—well, I’m always happy to know that the flowers I grow are being put to good use.” And it’s not like one crocus a month is a particularly egregious theft, either—Maren would be prepared to forgive it even if the thief weren’t drop-dead gorgeous.

Right, not thinking about that right now. _Not_ thinking about that right now.

The Flower Bandit looks down at the crocus again, a frown creasing her face. “How do you know that they’re going to a good use?” she asks. “Not that—of course _I_ think I’m doing something nice with them, but how do you know that I am?”

“Well,” Maren sighs, and now she’s _definitely_ blushing, “you come around pretty regularly—once a month, or something like that.” She’s glad her mental faculties have returned enough to allow her to be a little circumspect. “Obviously you have some sort of appointment that you keep, probably with someone else who likes the flowers, too. That sounds like a decent use to me.”

“Ah,” the Flower Bandit nods, like she was expecting something along those lines. “Well, they _are_ for someone, I suppose. Though—perhaps not so directly.”

Maren isn’t exactly sure what she means by that, but she does feel her breath catch and her heart deflate a little. It’s the obvious answer, and she’s been psyching herself up to hear it, but she supposes that there was still a tiny part of her who hoped that this mysterious Flower Bandit _wasn’t_ actually stealing the crocuses for someone else.

It’s a ridiculous thing to feel sad about, though, so she shoves the emotion down for later. Preferably when she has a tub of ice cream and Ryder is too far away to bother her.

“Would you . . . like to meet her?” the Flower Bandit asks, and Maren feels like she’s just driven a spike through her chest. Because of _course_ it’s a her, and why can’t this ever be easy? When Maren doesn’t reply, however, the Flower Bandit seems to mistake her panic for confusion and quickly continues. “My—” she swallows. “The person I’ve been collecting the flowers for, I mean.”

 _No_ , Maren thinks sullenly, _why would I want to meet her?_ But that would be rude, she knows, and the Flower Bandit sounds nervous enough that Maren thinks the invitation must have taken a fair amount of deliberation. She’s probably still nervous about the ‘good use’ thing, Maren realizes—she wants to prove to Maren that her flowers aren’t going to waste.

It’s a sweet gesture, really—which is why Maren sighs, squares her shoulders, and finally nods. “Sure,” she says carefully, and the Flower Bandit breathes a sigh of relief.

“It’s not far from here,” she says. “And—I’m sorry for not saying more, but you’ll understand soon enough.”

Well, _that’s_ not ominous at all, or anything.

The Flower Bandit is looking determinedly away from her, though, so Maren decides not to pry. She just follows her down the street instead, ignoring the buzz of her phone in her back pocket, and decides to risk a change of topic.

“So, uh,” she says, falling into step alongside her companion. “I don’t think I ever caught your name?”

“Oh—it’s Elsa,” the Flower Bandit says, looking a little taken aback. “Elsa van Arendelle.”

 _Elsa_ , Maren thinks, rolling the sound around in her head for a moment. Even her _name_ is beautiful, which is certain proof that the universe just isn’t fair sometimes. “I’m Honeymaren,” she says quickly, before the silence can get too awkward. “Nattura—Honeymaren Nattura, I mean, but you can just call me Maren. Most people do.”

A small grin forms on Elsa’s lips as Maren stumbles over herself, but she doesn’t make fun of her. “Nice to meet you, Honeymaren,” she says instead, and Maren feels a jolt of pure adrenaline rush down her spine.

In a way, she’s almost glad that Elsa is dating someone else, because she’s not sure she would survive fifteen minutes around this woman and live to tell the tale.

They walk in silence for the next several minutes—Elsa is clearly lost in thought, and Maren is too intimidated to interrupt again. Eventually, Elsa stops in front of a dilapidated church-like building, tugging nervously at her braid. 

Maren frowns, taking a closer look at the structure, and notes that most of its windows are covered by wood paneling and sport shattered glass within the frames. The entrance has been boarded shut, but a particularly determined child could probably squeeze through one of the cracks in the wall—not that Maren would consider such an activity safe for them.

For a single, terrifying moment, Maren assumes she’s been brought here to be murdered. But then she follows Elsa’s gaze, past the abandoned church to the field behind it, where haphazard rows of overgrown gray headstones dot the grass. Elsa takes a deep breath, like she’s about to say something, but then she lets it out shakily and remains still, staring at the empty graveyard.

_Oh, shit._

“Is that . . . ?” she asks, her throat dry, and Elsa just nods.

“My mother,” she says quietly. She glances down at the crocus, still cradled in her palm, and Maren thinks she sees tears in her eyes.. “She . . . she loved these flowers. Said they meant rebirth, or—or something similar, anyway.”

Maren makes a silent vow to never assume anything about what people plan to use her flowers for, ever again.

“I’m—I’m sorry,” she stammers. “If I’d known, I never would have—oh, God, you must think I’m such an awful person. Here I’ve been assuming . . .”

“It was the more likely assumption, in fairness,” Elsa says, the ghost of a smile gracing her lips. She holds the crocus up to Maren and adds, “And this right here is proof that you’re not nearly as awful as you think.”

Without waiting for a response, she starts making her way around the abandoned building toward the graveyard. Unsure of what to do with herself, Maren follows, trying to maintain enough distance so that Elsa has some privacy. When she sees Elsa stop at one of the headstones, she hangs back, gazing through one of the cracks in the church wall instead.

“Maren?” Elsa’s voice says, barely audible, and she turns around. “You can—I don’t mind if you stand here with me.”

She hears the hidden plea in Elsa’s voice, so Maren joins her in front of the headstone. _Iduna van Arendelle_ , the stone reads, _Hvil i fred. 1973-2014._

So she’s been gone for six years, then. Idly, Maren wonders if Elsa’s been taking crocuses from her planter for much longer than the past half-year, but Elsa answers the question without her having to voice it.

“For the longest time, I couldn’t bring myself to come here,” Elsa says quietly. “I—well, it’s a long story, but my sister and I were estranged until last December, and we’ve been coming here every month since we made up. But she’s sick today, and I . . .” She swallows, shakes her head. “I was going to come alone, but I just . . . you were right there, and . . .”

“It’s all right, I understand,” Maren says, when it becomes obvious that Elsa isn’t going to say any more. “It can be . . . hard, this sort of thing.”

Maren knows that firsthand, but Elsa doesn’t feel like the kind of person who would appreciate commiseration from strangers. And she doesn’t need Maren unloading her emotional trauma on her while she stands in front of her mother’s headstone, anyway.

Elsa just nods, kneeling to place the crocus gently on top of the soil. When she straightens again, her eyes are distant, and Maren looks away.

“Hi again, Mother,” Elsa says, and Maren feels the distinct sensation that she ought to be anywhere but here. But Elsa was the one who asked Maren to stand with her, so she remains where she is, listening. “It’s Anna’s turn with the stomach bug this month,” Elsa continues, “and she wishes she could be here, but . . . well.” She sighs and shakes her head. “I’ve brought someone else instead, someone I met today—she’s the one who’s been growing the flowers that you liked so much. I suppose if I’m being honest, I . . .”

She trails off and casts an uncomfortable glance at Maren, who understands immediately. She gives Elsa a small smile and ducks away, retreating from the graveyard and out to the front of the abandoned church, where she sits down on the dirt next to the wall.

She sits there for a long time, trailing her fingers idly through the dirt, and wonders what she should say to Elsa when she reappears. But nothing comes to mind—nothing that could be considered more than a token gesture, anyway.

Eventually, Elsa comes back around the building, dabbing at her eyes with a handkerchief. She stops when she sees Maren, startled.

“You’re still here,” Elsa says after a moment. The question is implied, but Maren knows it’s there.

“I wasn’t about to leave you here alone,” Maren shrugs. “Whatever you said after I left, I didn’t hear it, I promise. But I just . . . wanted to make sure you came out okay.” And that’s the truth of it, really—she hates leaving anyone behind in pain, no matter who it might be. She knows all too well what that’s like, and she wouldn’t wish it on anyone.

“I . . . thank you,” Elsa says quietly. “You didn’t have to, but—thank you.”

“It’s nothing,” Maren insists, rising so she can join Elsa on the sidewalk. “You doing okay?”

“I think so,” Elsa says. Her tone is uncertain, but Maren doesn’t blame her. “I’m sorry for dragging you into this, though. You were only trying to find out what was happening to your flowers.”

“Well, my fault for being so nosy,” Maren says. “And, for the record, this is definitely a good use of the crocuses. Not that I ever doubted it would be, but . . .” She shrugs. “If you happen to pass by to take any more, I’ll turn a blind eye for you.”

And she will, Maren knows. Not just in a metaphorical sense, but she already knows that there will be no more early Saturday mornings when Elsa passes by—she deserves the privacy to mourn in peace, and Maren isn’t about to infringe on that.

Not that she had any right to be infringing on it before, either, she thinks with a frown.

“Oh, no, I couldn’t,” Elsa says, breaking into Maren’s thoughts. “Not now that I know they’re yours—it was never the plan to bring flowers, really. But I saw them along the road that first month, and I didn’t even know what they were called, but I knew Mother had loved them when . . . before she passed.” She looks up at Maren. “You have a wonderful hand with them, you know. They’re beautiful.”

Maren blushes, forcing down a smile. “Um—thank you,” she manages. “I—well, I do arrange flowers for a living, so I guess I’ve had some practice.”

“Oh, that’s right, you said you were a florist.” A stricken look crosses Elsa’s face. “Wait, they weren’t—I mean, you weren’t planning on selling any of those, were you?”

“No, no, of course not,” Maren assures her. “The first set of crocuses were just a pet project of mine. You know, to make the apartment a little prettier.”

“Oh,” Elsa says, nodding. A blush is beginning to spread across her cheeks, but Maren can’t quite comprehend why. “Okay, that’s—good.”

Maren nods, unsure of what to say. She stares down at the concrete below her feet, jabbing a toe at one of the cracks running along the sidewalk, and traces the jagged edges until Elsa speaks again.

“Um, anyway,” Elsa says. “I should probably be going—my sister will worry if I don’t call her soon.”

“Of course,” Maren nods.

“Thank you for letting me drag you all the way out here.” Elsa doesn’t quite meet her gaze as she talks, but Maren figures that’s all right. “It was—well, it was good to not be alone. And thank you for not freaking out about your flowers, too.”

“Nah, don’t mention it,” Maren shrugs. She starts down the sidewalk in the opposite direction from her apartment, mostly because she knows Elsa will be heading back past the building, and she doesn’t want to overstay her welcome. “Uh, I hope your sister feels better soon.”

“Thanks,” Elsa says, smiling the brightest she has since Maren first ran into her on the sidewalk outside her apartment. “I’ll pass along the kind words.”

And then she’s gone, turning away from Maren and walking back the way they came. Maren forces herself to look away before Elsa has passed out of sight. And then, once she’s gone, Maren pulls out her phone to bring up walking directions into town.

She might as well run some errands while she’s out, she thinks. At the very least, it will delay the inevitable interrogation that Ryder undoubtedly has planned for her once she gets home.

* * *

“So, mourning flowers, eh?” Ryder muses later that night, after Maren has finished restocking the freezer with generous amounts of strawberry ice cream. “That’s one way to kill a vibe.” 

Now that she’s spent several hours out of Elsa’s presence, Maren is beginning to feel all of the emotions that she managed to block out earlier—chief among them being the suffocating knowledge that she’ll probably never see her again, at least not in a way that will allow them to interact with each other. But she still feels that she ought to defend the woman.

“It’s not her fault,” Maren says with a shrug. “I mean, I’m the one who was being weird about it in the first place. She’s just doing the best she can.”

“Yeah.” Ryder frowns, clearly lost in thought. “I’m sorry, Mare. I really thought there might be something there, if you managed to hit it off with her.”

Maren snorts. “As if,” she mutters under her breath. “Even if circumstances were different, she’s still completely out of my league. So I never expected much anyway.”

Ryder studies her carefully. “Is that why you’ve brought home not one, but _three_ tubs of the comfort strawberry?”

Unable to muster the energy to even glare at him, Maren sighs. “Maybe.”

“Maybe?” he says, giving her another look. “Well, if you’re that uncertain about it, maybe I should take one or two of them off your hands. I don’t know about you, but work’s been grinding me down to the bone lately, so—”

“Fuck off, those are mine,” Maren says, slapping his hand away from the freezer handle. Ryder winces, shaking out his wrist as he backs away, but he’s grinning.

“There’s the Mare I know and love,” he says, giving her a winning smile. Maren just rolls her eyes. “Though if you do have any ice cream left over when you’re done, just give me a shout. You know I love the strawberry stuff, too.”

“I won’t,” she promises, reaching into the cabinet for a bowl and a spoon. Or, well, maybe just a spoon—these cartons aren’t all that large, anyway. Ryder gives her a mock pout as he retreats toward his room, but she knows that even if she doesn’t tell him, whatever ice cream she doesn’t eat tonight is bound to be gone by the end of the week.

Maren opens the freezer to grab one of the cartons and wonders if three of them might have been a little bit overkill.

Nah, she decides as she pops the lid off and drives her spoon into the surface. There’s never an overkill when it comes to strawberry ice cream.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy . . . Valentine's Day? 
> 
> This is as angsty as it gets, I promise! It's all fluff from here on out.


	4. August

AUGUST

* * *

True to her word, Maren remains in bed through the morning of the third Saturday in August, and it only hurts a little bit when she wakes up every fifteen minutes with the overpowering urge to run to the window and look out. But she does her best to cover her head with her pillow and resist it.

She can hear Ryder moving around in the kitchen outside, but Maren knows that exiting her room will make it too easy to give in to temptation—so she lays on top of her blankets instead, eyes squeezed shut, unable to slip back into sleep.

When she finally walks into the kitchen at 11:30 A.M., Ryder has a stack of pancakes already on the table. He’s busy drowning his own plate in what looks like a full cup of maple syrup, but honestly, Maren feels like she could go for that, too.

Unfortunately, the fact that Ryder has made her breakfast means she has bigger issues to deal with at the moment.

“What do you want from me this time?” Maren asks, eyeing the plate of pancakes with a generous helping of distrust. He’s even gotten a fork and a knife out for her.

Ryder looks up from his food, offended. “Come on, Mare,” he says. “Is this any way to treat the amazing brother who’s just cooked you the best breakfast you’ve had in weeks?”

Technically, Maren supposes, it _is_ , but that’s only because her weekday breakfasts consist of either toast or a bowl of cereal, and she sleeps in too late on weekends to justify eating before lunch.

And it still doesn’t change the fact that he’s being suspiciously nice to her.

“You literally hate cooking,” she points out, sliding into her chair and picking up the fork. “And I know for a fact that I didn’t grab pancake mix last time I was out, which means you bought it yourself. Possibly even this morning.”

“So what if I did?” Ryder says, but his too-controlled expression gives him away. “Can’t a guy do something nice for his big sister every once in a while?”

Okay, plus the fact that he’s laying it on _really_ thick.

“Not this nice,” Maren says, even as she drowns her pancakes in syrup. Ryder might hate cooking, but that doesn’t mean his pancakes aren’t excellent. “Spill, Ry.”

“Okay, okay, fine,” Ryder grumbles. “Uh, there are actually two things that I should probably tell you.”

“Is this a good news, bad news sort of thing?” Maren asks, frowning. “Or are they both going to make me want to tear my hair out and scream?”

Ryder just shrugs, which does nothing to boost her confidence in the situation, and fidgets with something under the table that she can’t see. “So, uh, first things first—I put in my two weeks’ at Oaken’s yesterday.” Maren looks up sharply, several questions on the tip of her tongue at once, but he rushes on. “It’s not as bad as you think! I just—okay, it might be bad for a month or so, but I think I have enough money stashed away to cover my rent while I’m not working—I’m starting at the animal shelter in October, but I guess I got my months mixed up or something.”

Maren just blinks at him, trying to process what he’s just said. “Wait. You got that job you were looking at?”

“Oh yeah!” Ryder’s face breaks into a grin. “Probably should have led with that, now that I think about it.”

“Don’t scare me like that, you dick,” Maren grumbles, but she can’t keep herself from grinning. Ryder’s been waiting for _years_ for a position to open up at one of the shelters around town, and he was all but certain that this one would be snatched up by someone more qualified than him. But it seems that luck is finally on her brother’s side, for once. “But that’s amazing, Ry! So, what, you thought next month was October or something?”

“Guess I got a bit excited,” Ryder admits, flushing a little. “But, um, I just wanted to stress that the rent is fine, I can still hold my end of the deal, because of the second thing.”

Maren frowns. “That wasn’t both of the things right there?”

“What?” Ryder says. “Oh. Well, I guess that was technically two different things, but this is a third thing. Apart from the other one—two. Entirely separate.” He’s rambling, Maren notes, which is never a good sign. “Now, don’t get mad at me or anything—”

“Ryder,” Maren sighs. “What did you do?”

Ryder lifts whatever he has in his lap and tosses it at her, grimacing. Maren catches it before it lands on her plate of pancakes and finds herself holding . . . an envelope? She turns it over in her hands, and spots her name written on the front in impeccable cursive.

There’s a bulge in the paper that Maren recognizes instantly as the shape of dollar bills.

“I went out early this morning for pancake mix,” Ryder says. “Um, as you might have guessed. And I kind of ran into the flower girl on my way back in—Elsa, I think? Look, I know you’ve been trying to forget about her, and I swear it wasn’t on purpose, but she said that was for you, and—I couldn’t _not_ take it from her.”

 _Dammit_ , Maren thinks. She’s been doing so well today—staying in bed until late, refusing to look out the window to check for any missing crocuses, allowing herself to be dragged into Ryder’s workplace mishaps instead of obsessing over whether or not Elsa might have missed her—but now, just holding the envelope and knowing it’s from her, Maren’s heartbeat starts to pick up uncontrollably.

Then she regains enough presence of mind to wonder why the hell Elsa would be sending her _money_ , so she rips the envelope open and dumps its contents out onto the table.

The bills are crisp and new, like they hadn’t been touched before Elsa slipped them into the envelope, and to Maren’s immense relief, they’re all ones. Still, there has to be at least fifty dollars here. She frowns, but before she can ask Ryder if Elsa happened to offer any explanation for this, she spots a folded sheet of paper hidden among the bills.

Curious, she picks it up to find that there’s writing on the inside.

 _I know you said you didn’t mind me taking your flowers_ , the note reads, in the same cursive as Maren’s name on the envelope, _but I won’t be able to get this off my conscience if I don’t try to make things right. Unfortunately, I can’t get the Internet to tell me how much a crocus ought to cost, but I thought that $9 per stem would be a fair asking price._

She’s signed the note at the bottom, a simple _—Elsa_ drawn beautifully near the right margin. Maren flips the sheet over, wondering if there might be something on the back— _a phone number, perhaps?_ part of her mind whispers, to which she replies, _shut up_ —but the other side of the paper is blank. She glances up to find Ryder looking at her expectantly.

“So?” her brother says, giving her a significant look. “Is there something I should know about, Mare? You didn’t get involved in some underground drug ring or anything, I hope.”

Maren snickers, tucking the note into her pocket. “No, not a drug ring,” she says. “But apparently she’s decided that nine dollars a unit is a fair price to pay for a single crocus.” She debates showing the note to Ryder as proof, but a part of her also doesn’t want him to see it, for some reason.

“Nine dollars?” Ryder says, choking on a chunk of pancake. “Fuck me, how rich is this woman? You sell _exotics_ for less than that!”

“Not all of the exotics,” Maren says with a wry grin. But it’s definitely more than anyone in their right mind would pay for a single crocus flower—more than double, even on a good day. Maren sighs and shuffles a little over half the bills back into the envelope, then changes her mind and stands up to grab an envelope of her own. “I guess I’ll have to write her back and tell her as much,” she says.

“Are you sure that’s a good idea?” Ryder starts, but he holds his hands up in surrender when she glares at him. “Not because of the money, I mean, but—talking to her? Even if it’s just to hand her a note.”

Maren shakes her head. “I’m not about to give her a chance to argue,” she snorts. Anyone willing to cram fifty-four dollars into an envelope for something this small isn’t going to take a refusal sitting down. “I’ll just leave it in the flowerbed before she’s here next month.”

Ryder shrugs, and she thinks she sees a hint of relief in his face. “Just as long as you don’t make me talk to her, either,” he says. “She’s kind of terrifying up close.”

Maren isn't quite sure if she agrees with his assessment of Elsa—terrifyingly beautiful, maybe, though she’s pretty sure that isn’t what he means—but it would be pointless to argue with him. She locates the box of envelopes instead, deciding to put off writing the note until later. Once she’s done shoving the bills into her new envelope, she returns to the table for more pancakes—and hopefully, a much-needed distraction.

“So,” she says, ignoring the tiny piece of paper that’s starting to burn a hole in her pocket and the churning in her stomach that she thought she’d managed to stamp out by now. “Tell me about this animal shelter?”

Luckily for her, Ryder is all too happy to oblige.


	5. September

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two chapters this week! (Since they're both pretty short.)

SEPTEMBER

* * *

Maren stares down at the envelope in her hands, which is inexplicably full of the twenty-four dollars she tried to return in _addition_ to an extra nine for the crocus that Elsa has allegedly taken this month. But she’s counted the flowers in the planter at least a dozen times now, and there are still just as many as there were last night.

Which means Elsa is lying, and quite possibly just trying to get a rise out of her.

The envelope is the same one she left out the night before, but Elsa has crossed out her own name and written Maren’s underneath it in a small, cramped version of the flowing cursive on her previous letter. Maren assumes it’s due to the lack of a decent writing surface, because her message on the back of Maren’s note is written in the same fashion.

_I really must insist_ , the note reads, _and I’m afraid that as long as I keep taking flowers, the total will only continue to grow. Perhaps you should simply accept it before I have to start leaving multiple envelopes of bills in your flowerbed at once?_

_Crocuses (crocii?) aside, I hope you’re doing all right. —Elsa_

So that’s how it’s going to be, then. 

Maren grinds her teeth together and pushes open the door to her apartment, stopping short when she spots Ryder sitting at the kitchen table. He’s stirring a bowl of what appears to be oatmeal, except there’s a block of cheese on the counter next to a hand-shredder, neither of which is something she put there. Maren almost doesn’t want to ask, but her curiosity gets the better of her.

“Ryder,” she says slowly, “what the hell are you eating?”

“A mistake,” her brother grumbles between mouthfuls. He looks up at her mournfully before gesturing to his bowl. “Did you know that we’re out of the apple cinnamon oatmeal? The only packets we have left are the boring plain stuff. Completely unrelated, just thought I’d bring that up.”

“You added cheese to your oatmeal,” Maren says flatly.

“Yep.”

Her eyes flick back and forth between the countertop and his bowl, until she realizes— “ _Parmesan_ cheese.”

“I said it was a mistake, all right?” Ryder groans. “I thought it would at least—I mean, I thought it would be much better than it actually is.”

“God, you’re hopeless,” Maren sighs. She snatches his bowl off the table as she passes and dumps it into the sink. “Come on, we’re going out for brunch. I haven’t eaten yet, either.”

Ryder doesn’t protest the sudden theft of his food, just tosses his spoon into the pile of dishes on the counter. “Fine by me,” he says. “What’s the occasion?”

“Keeping me occupied until the window has passed where I have the chance to do something incredibly stupid.” She’s not sure how much time Elsa usually spends at the cemetery, but it’s been less than an hour since the time she typically passes by Maren’s apartment—which means there’s a half-decent chance she’s still there. 

Maren swaps the envelope for her wallet, leaving the former on the shelf by the door so she won’t be tempted even further. Ryder follows her movements and raises an eyebrow.

“So I take it she found a way to argue with you anyway,” he says. Maren wants to punch the stupid grin right off his face.

“It’s not even a valid argument,” she grumbles. She outlines the gist of Elsa’s note for him, including the fact that there aren’t even any flowers missing from the planter today.

Ryder whistles in appreciation. “Wow, that’s some dedication,” he says. “But I have to ask, how exactly do you plan on convincing her to take the money back? Because there’s only so much that strongly-worded notes can do for you—”

“I’ll think of something,” Maren cuts him off. “But for now, I want food. Come on, hurry up.”

“Fine, fine, no arguments here.” Ryder makes his way over to the door and snatches his keys off the shelf. “Where to? Unless you’re letting me pick for once?”

She does let him pick, but only because she doesn’t trust herself not to choose a route that will take them past the cemetery. Luckily, there’s a recently-opened diner that Ryder likes in the opposite direction, so they set out at a brisk pace, with Maren pouring all of her energy into the strenuous task of keeping herself from glancing behind them.

Never in her entire life has she been so glad to arrive at such a shitty diner, but hey, there’s a first time for everything.


	6. October

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two chapters this week! (Since they're both pretty short.)

OCTOBER

* * *

By the time the third Saturday of October rolls around, Ryder is a week into his new job at the animal shelter, and he’s practically living on cloud nine. Maren, meanwhile, is certain that she’s found a foolproof plan to keep Elsa from escalating their little feud any further: she’s painstakingly repotted all of the crocuses in the planter, leaving only a single brick in the dirt to rest the envelope against. She’s used the same one as last month (though a new sheet of note paper was required), so the front of it now reads _~~Elsa~~ ~~Maren~~ Elsa._

She’s also taken the liberty of replying to the question at the bottom of Elsa’s last note, letting her know that she is, indeed, doing all right—and that she hopes the other woman is, too. Maren’s usually-neat handwriting looks practically shoddy next to Elsa’s cursive, but she’s not about to give this up.

In fact, convincing herself not to add another paragraph or two to the note has been a struggle for the last week or so.

Her trap set, Maren retreats into her apartment and forces herself to close the blinds so she won’t be tempted to watch for Elsa’s arrival. She turns her attention to her latest book instead— _White Fang_ , which Ryder practically forced into her hands after finding out she’d never managed to read the book before.

It’s not actually a very good story, but he is a very insistent brother.

Maren waits as long as she can, surfacing from her reading at intervals that feel like they’ve lasted hours but turn out to really be less than fifteen minutes. When she’s absolutely certain that Elsa must have gone past, she takes a quick glance out the curtain and notes that the envelope is still, indeed, there. But it’s shifted positions slightly, and is now resting at an angle against the brick.

Maren takes the steps two at a time to reach the ground floor, and when she picks up the envelope, it definitely feels bulkier than it was when she left it. Sighing, she fishes through the bills for the note that she knows is there, pulls it out, and reads.

_No flowers for me today?_ Elsa has written, in the same cramped script as last month. _A little bit rude, if you ask me, but I do feel obliged to compensate you for your labor—it must have taken you at least an hour to empty the flowerbed, so another $20 should suffice._

She knows by now that if she counts, there will indeed be another score of one-dollar bills in the stack. Maren wants to scream.

Before she heads back up, Maren glances back at the note to find a longer paragraph underneath the first, presumably with an updated response on Elsa’s state of being, but she just ignores it for now. That portion of their little interactions can wait.

“You know,” Ryder says as she stomps through the apartment doorway, “you might want to consider giving this up. I doubt she’s going to stop anytime soon.”

Maren just glares at him, then tosses the envelope onto the table and opens up the stationary drawer to search for another pen. “I’ll have you know,” she says, “that _I_ don’t plan on stopping anytime soon, either.” Just over an hour later, she gathers all of the bills that Elsa has given her—all eighty-three of them—and barely manages to stuff them into a new, oversized envelope along with yet another note.

The only problem now is that she’ll have to wait another month to send it.


	7. November

NOVEMBER

* * *

Unfortunately for Maren, before the third Saturday of November comes the yearly Week-Before-Thanksgiving, in which she and Ryder brave the terrors of New York freeway for two long, nail-biting hours on a Thursday rush hour afternoon—all to end up at Aunt Yelena’s for their “annual fall family dinner”.

The fact that they hold it exactly a week before Thanksgiving is, at least in Yelena’s words, a completely uninteresting coincidence. Maren, however, is certain it’s meant to make sure they have no excuse to skip out on it.

Ryder spends the entire time he’s in the passenger seat droning on at length about Kristoff, his boss at the animal shelter, and how (in Ryder’s words) “wonderfully inspiring” he is with the animals. He’s so enthused, in fact, that Maren is starting to suspect that her brother has a little bit of a crush.

Unfortunately for him, as Maren feels compelled to point out: 1) Kristoff is his _boss_ , and 2) said boss has also mentioned that he’s engaged. She hopes her brother is sensible enough to squash his feelings now, before they get too far out of hand—but then, she’s certainly one to talk.

Upon their arrival, Yelena starts to grill them both with questions almost before they’re through the doorway. She manages to drag out details that Maren wasn’t even aware she still remembered—profit margins, customer retention policies, the works. She’s no less inquisitive with Ryder, but her brother doesn’t have quite as much to report. He’s just an employee, after all, even if Maren is pretty sure his job is much more active than hers is.

At least the food is amazing, as always.

Eight o’clock passes as they eat, and then nine, and then ten. Maren can’t quite keep herself from glancing out the window every so often, staring anxiously at the snow beginning to fall in the porchlight. Being trapped here for the night wouldn’t be the worst thing, but her own bed at home is much more comfortable than the couch. And besides, there’s the small matter of the note she has to put out before Saturday . . .

“Honeymaren,” Yelena’s voice says, breaking into her thoughts. “Really now, are you in such a hurry to leave?”

Maren returns her gaze to her plate, which is still covered in a glaze of half-eaten mashed potatoes, gravy, and stuffing. “Of course not,” she says, picking her fork back up. “Just worried about the snow, is all.”

Ryder, however, grins knowingly, and opens his mouth before she can shoot him a warning glare. “Worried we won’t be back by Saturday?” he says, leaning back in his chair.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Maren growls, but Yelena cottons on far too quickly.

“What’s so special about Saturday, hmm?” she asks. Carefully, so that Yelena doesn’t notice, Maren gives her brother a kick under the table and a look that says _You’re dead, asshole_.

“Nothing’s special about Saturday,” she lies, but Ryder, as usual, is prepared to call her bluff.

“Oh?” he says. “Then you wouldn’t mind if we stayed here for a few days, right? I could do with a couple more of Aunt Yelena’s wonderful meals, myself.”

Yelena, who has literally never invited the two of them to stay for longer than twelve hours since the day they moved out, actually _nods_. “Spirits know I have the food to spare,” she says, picking innocently at the back of one of her nails, “and I never see the two of you anymore. Unless you have some pressing reason to be back in the city, I suppose . . .”

Maren grinds her teeth together and gives Ryder another glare for good measure—but she’s not about to back down, not from both of them at once. “I don’t,” she announces, staring her brother in the eyes. “And staying an extra few days would be a _wonderful_ idea.”

Yelena frowns, but she’s not the kind of person to admit that Maren has just called her bluff. “You rascals,” she mutters. “I suppose I’ll be setting the table for three until Sunday, then.”

If it’s still snowing on Saturday, Maren thinks, maybe Elsa will be sensible and cancel her monthly trip to the cemetery. Or maybe she’ll drive herself there instead, and she won’t notice the absence of a note laid out for her in Maren’s planter. She’s put the crocuses back since last month’s disaster, so at least that much won’t be amiss.

She continues to eat slowly, lost in thought, until she catches Ryder gazing out the window and grimacing. Maren turns to have a look, but the view outside is blocked by a wall of white—heavy snowfall, it seems, and fast. She hesitates to call it a blizzard, but out here, it might as well be one.

“Good thing we didn’t try to drive back in that,” Ryder mutters. “We’d have been goners for sure.”

“Yeah,” Maren agrees slowly. She feels a small twinge in her chest at the realization that her chances of absconding tomorrow are as good as gone, too. “Good thing.”

She goes to bed that night tossing and turning on the couch, unable to pull from her mind the image of the cream-white envelope, already sealed and properly addressed, sitting uselessly on her kitchen counter while Elsa passes by outside.

* * *

Although it stops snowing the next day, it’s Monday morning before the roads are clear enough to drive back into the city—so all in all, Maren doesn’t actually get a good look at the planter until she returns home from work in the afternoon. As she’s passing it on the way to the door, however, a flash of red catches her eye.

Frowning, she stops to investigate. It turns out to be a candy cane, sticking up out of the snow that’s piled up in the planter—and taped to the back of it, to her surprise, is an envelope. Maren snags both of the items and decides she can open up the note inside, where it’s warm. Ryder won’t be back from work for a couple hours, anyway.

The candy cane is still covered in plastic wrap, so Maren deems it safe to eat—though anyone who buys candy canes this early in the holiday season ought to have their sanity questioned. Still, she doubts she would have spotted the note without it, so she deems it a net balance.

The envelope is empty aside from a single sheet of paper, upon which Elsa has written, _So—should I interpret your lack of response this month as a concession of defeat?_

“Absolutely not,” Maren scoffs to herself, rising from the table to search for a pen. She’s going to have to revise the note she meant to send this month—and also apologize for missing their usual rendezvous, though she’s not entirely sure why she feels compelled to do so.

She’s still drafting when Ryder gets home, furiously scribbling out a line that sounded fine in her head but looks a little too passive-aggressive on paper. The candy cane is long gone, but her hands and her lips are still sticky and red.

“Do I smell peppermint?” Ryder asks as he steps through the door. Maren looks at him, astounded.

“I had _one_ candy cane,” she says. “It shouldn’t even be possible to smell that.”

“And here I thought you’d caved and grabbed our December tea early,” Ryder sighs. Then he frowns. “Wait a minute, do I get a candy cane, too?”

“Nope,” Maren says, scribbling out another sentence. She’s going to need multiple sheets of paper, at this rate. “Elsa just left the one.” She realizes what she’s saying far too late to stop herself—hopefully, her blush isn’t nearly as visible as she thinks it is.

“Hmm, so she’s leaving you sweets now?” Ryder smirks as he drops his coat and hat on top of the table, making a beeline for the pantry. “Sounds like things are getting pretty serious.”

“Fuck off,” Maren grumbles. “It was just to hold the envelope up off the snow.”

“So she’s generous _and_ resourceful,” he muses. “I dunno, Mare, maybe you were wrong to try and forget about her. She seems like a—” He pauses as he passes by where Maren is sitting, and she realizes belatedly that she’s forgotten to cover up her note. “ _What_ are you writing?”

“Nothing,” she lies, blushing furiously. She doesn’t even have to look at him to know that he knows exactly what this is.

Ryder just rolls his eyes, continuing on his way to the microwave with a newly-acquired pack of instant hot chocolate. “I dunno, Mare,” he chuckles. “Because to me, at least, it looks suspiciously like a _love_ —”

Without looking up, she plucks his hat from where it lies on the table and hurls it at him, nailing him squarely in the back of the head. It is, unfortunately, not enough to shut him up.


End file.
